


Bite to Blood

by Lovejoy



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Aroused Victim, Blackmail, Chikan, Come Marking, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsession, Post-Doubt, Rape Aftermath, Rimming, Sexual Coercion, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovejoy/pseuds/Lovejoy
Summary: I can’t just keep watching anymore. I hope you understand.
Relationships: Yagami Light/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Bite to Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallowDeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallowDeer/gifts).



> Thank you to R for the beta!

“Again?” called his opponent.

Light shook his head. The racket was slippery in his hand. Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead and ran down his nape. He put his fingers through his fringe and pushed it back, relishing the cool breeze.

“No, I think that’s enough for me,” he called back. He’d won all three matches easily, which made him feel generous.

The crowd that had gathered to watch him, as it usually did whenever he decided to come to the courts to blow off some steam or get some exercise in, murmured in disappointment. Several students began to get up. He allowed himself a lazy, self-satisfied smile. Those looking would assume it was because of the match, and it _was_ —but not only. While he’d been playing, he’d scheduled three criminals to die.

Light made his way over to the seats where his tennis bag and water bottle sat. He unscrewed the bottle and drank deeply, using a hand towel to wipe the sweat from his face. The water tasted warm and stale from baking under the sun, but it was refreshing enough. He poured the rest over his head to take the edge off the heat.

It was only when he’d retreated to the locker room that he began to feel drowsy. 

He frowned, instantly evaluating himself. He felt his own forehead, checked his pulse—wrist and neck. Slow. It couldn't be heat exhaustion. He was always careful to monitor his physical condition, and he’d kept cool and hydrated. But he felt unnaturally sluggish, uncoordinated.

A dull panic set in. His eyes darted to the water bottle he was still holding. He’d left it unsupervised while he was playing. The stale-tasting water… some kind of tranquilizer? Someone must have slipped something in. No—that would’ve taken too long, been too conspicuous. Even Light would have noticed. Replaced the bottle? It would have been easy for someone to walk by and switch them.

_Fuck._ His vision began to fuzz and blur. He felt drunk, his muscles too loose to obey his commands.

Fear and anger gripped him. He couldn’t keep standing or he was going to hurt himself when he lost consciousness, which seemed more and more likely with each passing second. Either he attempted to get somewhere public to find help—and ran the risk of humiliating himself in the process—or found somewhere to hide. 

Pride won out. He stumbled over to one of the bathroom stalls.

“Light?” Ryuk said. “You’re acting weird.”

“Someone drugged me,” he hissed.

“Oh,” Ryuk said. His eyes gleamed with interest. “Uh-oh.”

Light locked the door behind him and took out his phone with a trembling hand. “I’m calling the campus police,” he announced to the empty bathroom, with no idea if he’d even been heard. His own voice sounded hazy, slurred. His stomach rolled over. The number was clear in his mind, but he couldn’t make his thumb press the correct numbers.

The phone fell from his hand and clattered onto the tile floor. Everything went dark.

*

Something was ringing. 

_Shut up_ , Light thought, and it stopped. A vicious headache was pounding at the base of his skull. He opened his eyes and remembered where he was.

There was a shadow next to him. Light jolted before he saw it was only Ryuk, his eyes glowing like two embers in a bed of ash.

“You’re awake,” he said, in a maddeningly amused voice. “Took you long enough.”

“How long have I…” Light trailed off. His face felt tight, dry. Something pulled at his skin. Dried blood? He raised a hand to inspect it, but his eyes caught on something else—something in his lap.

A square of paper? He picked it up. The paper was thick with a glossy sheen. A polaroid, backside up—something written on it in thick marker.

Light read it, and a sick, violent horror gripped his insides. 

_I’m sorry. You were too pretty to resist. I couldn’t help myself._

_I can’t just keep watching anymore. I hope you understand._

_Come to Ueno Station at 6 PM and go to platform 8, or everyone will know how dirty you are._

_— Your secret admirer._

He flipped the polaroid over.

It was a picture of him, unconscious, his face and hair striped in fresh wet semen. 

Semen. Semen had dried on his face.

White noise crackled in his ears. His thoughts ceased completely, and then came roaring back in a blinding wave of nauseated rage. He was frozen. His throat felt dry, but it didn’t hurt, wasn’t raw. His mouth tasted foul, but he couldn't tell if that was a side-effect of the drug, or of unconsciousness, or if he’d been made to—to taste—

The idea made his throat spasm, go numb. Quickly, he twisted to the side and vomited into the squat toilet.

“Whoa,” Ryuk said, surprised. “Light?”

He spat the evil taste from his mouth, grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wiped his lips— _scrubbed_ —and threw that in too. Flushed, swallowed hard. He put a palm to the stall wall and got to his feet unsteadily, his stomach in knots. He needed to shower immediately. He had to get this _filth_ off himself, had to get clean. Back to normal. Erase any evidence that anything had ever happened.

He realized he was still holding the polaroid. Jerkily, he tore it to tiny shreds and threw them all into the toilet, flushing it again. He knew he was destroying evidence, but he didn’t care. It couldn’t exist.

He checked his watch. A little after eight PM. He’d been out for five hours. Night classes were still going on, but then the janitorial staff would come by to clean up. He had to be gone by then.

“You saw him,” he rasped.

“Yeah,” Ryuk said, drifting right through the stall door as Light slammed it shut and went to the nearest sink.

“ _And?_ ” He twisted the faucet on. “What did he do? What did he look like?”

“Like a regular human.” Ryuk’s tone made it clear he was being difficult on purpose. He was enjoying this; of course he was. “He watched you for a while. Touched your hair. Then he got all overwhelmed, marked you, and took a few pictures.” His lamplike eyes glinted mischievously. “Are you gonna do what he says?”

Light didn’t answer. He wanted to scream at him. For not understanding, for not telling him what he wanted to hear, for treating his humiliation like a TV show. 

His phone rang again.

_Shit._ He checked it automatically. _Dad._

“Oh, yeah, it’s been doing that for hours,” Ryuk said. “You’ve been out of it for a while.”

Light stared down at the mobile, mind blank. He let it ring out. He couldn’t answer, not until he was clean. He wouldn't speak to anyone looking like—like this, even if they couldn't see him. He didn't feel like a human being.

“Go see if there’s anyone else in here,” he said. Ryuk’s head cocked to the side.

“What’s in it for me?”

“The show of your life,” Light spat.

He didn’t want to touch the filth on his face, but he had no choice. While Ryuk floated away, he ran the water hot and put his head under the faucet as best he could, then scrubbed away the rest of the foul discharge with paper towels. He was gentle with himself—it couldn’t look like he’d irritated his own skin. He was careful, too, washing his hands. L would notice if there was anything strange about him, physically. L always noticed.

Ryuk came back. “Nobody’s here but you,” he said. “What show?”

“I’m going to kill whoever did this to me,” Light said, and Ryuk cackled.

He changed back into his day clothes. When he next looked into the mirror, there was no trace of what had been done to him, nothing but a tight rage in his eyes. The expression in the mirror smoothed over, settled back into its usual mask. He fixed his hair, swept dust from his shirt. He looked impeccable. There was nothing filthy about the young man in his reflection, nothing deviant or obscene. Nothing at all had happened to him.

At last, he checked his phone. Five missed calls from his parents; three voicemails from his father’s work number. Several text messages, one of which was from an anonymous number—L. All of them to the same effect.

_Light-kun, please answer your phone. You’re acting very suspicious._

He needed an excuse. L would pick apart a lie—well, he would scrutinize anything Light had to say, whether it was a lie or not.

It would be easier if his admirer had left him with bruises. If he’d been rough. Then he’d be able to say he’d been caught up in a pointless fight, or mugged and knocked out on the way home. Could happen to anyone. Crime was less frequent, yes, but it still happened. There was precedent. People were still poor and desperate, or else didn’t think they’d get caught. _Idiots._

Light squeezed his eyes shut, set his jaw, and dialed.

His father picked up on the first ring. “Light! Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Hi, Dad,” he said, letting exhaustion seep into his tone. It wasn’t difficult to act tired. “I just woke up. I had an accident.”

“An accident? Light—“

“No, it’s nothing bad, just pushed myself too hard playing tennis after classes today. Heat exhaustion. I went to go lie down for a while and fell asleep.”

His father breathed a sigh of relief. “I… I see. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Light said. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I’ll tell the others,” his father said. Light could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses riding up on the edges of his thumb and forefinger. “Call your mother.”

“I will. See you soon, Dad.”

He called his mother. She fussed, but he was used to placating her; he had her calm in moments.

He put his phone away, straightened his spine, shouldered his bag. He could still feel the filthy crust of come tugging at his skin. Revulsion gagged him, but he swallowed it back and headed out, head held high.

*

Back at HQ, he could tell L didn’t believe him, but that wasn’t anything new. 

“It’s very rare for Light-kun to make mistakes,” he said, dipping a spoon into a mug of sludgy hot cocoa. “He is usually so good at knowing his own limits.”

“You’ve never been so focused on a match that you pushed yourself too hard?”

L gave him a blank, empty look. Something glittered in his inkwell eyes. Then he put the spoon in his mouth like a toddler and utterly ruined the effect. “Not yet.”

It chafed to admit to a mistake, especially when the mistake was fabricated, but there was no alternative. Normal people made mistakes; Light couldn’t be perfect all the time. He knew he _could_ —he was more than capable—but L would suspect something. Even more than he already did.

Light fought the urge to roll his eyes. He sighed good-naturedly instead, shaking his head. “Not all of us are so lucky, Ryuuzaki. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Of course you will,” L said.

*

The admirer had given him the better part of a week, so Light prepared.

The very next day, he began flirting with a pretty, popular political science student: a girl a year ahead of him who lived close to the line that Ueno Station served. By Thursday she was putty in his hands. He asked her casually on a first date. She agreed. Of course she agreed.

He planned to cancel on her later that week with an urgent text and a raincheck. She knew about his father—most everyone who was anyone did. He’d even purposefully let slip that he occasionally assisted the force on cases, under the table, so canceled plans due to a work emergency were perfectly plausible. It wasn’t an airtight alibi, but it would have to be enough for his purposes. Fumiko was the type of person who hated to lose face; he knew she would rather lie than admit the date hadn’t happened.

His _admirer_ hadn’t attempted to contact him since the locker room incident. It was a genuine struggle to act as he normally did, to refrain from constantly checking around himself for anyone who might be _too_ interested, to not read intent into every glance. Light was a popular student; he was constantly being stared at, evaluated, appraised or discussed. There was no way to know who was looking too closely unless he was approached.

At night, he made sure his curtains were drawn, his windows and doors all locked. Nobody but him had been inside his room, which was a small comfort, but he still couldn’t shake the prickly feeling of being watched. It wasn’t anything like the hungry glare of L’s cameras, where Light had performed for his audience with dark enjoyment. This time, there were no cameras, no evidence of surveillance—only the phantom memory of a sticky face, the taste of bile, an unforgivable violation.

Dress shirt, dress slacks, no tie. He slipped a folded fresh scrap of the Death Note into his wallet and his wallet into his back pocket. His phone went into his jacket pocket, as well as a pen.

He sent off the text to the girl, early enough to be considerate, but late enough to feel rushed and genuine. _Fumiko, I’m sorry. I can’t make it tonight. Something urgent came up with my father at work. I’ll take you out another time. If anyone asks, we had a great time together._

He made his way out the front door, Ryuk following after him like a feathered rain cloud.

“Enjoy your date!” Sayu sing-songed from the living room, where she was watching her soap. “Don't get her hopes up!”

“Sayu!” chastised his mother. “Have fun, Light!”

“‘Bye, Sayu, Mom,” Light sighed, the very picture of an exasperated older brother, and stepped out into the night.

*

Ueno Station was packed. Light went to the specified platform and waited, surging with unwanted nerves.

Maybe five minutes had passed before Light became horribly aware of a warm body behind him, pressing too close to be anything but purposeful. Hot breath gushed out over the shell of his ear. He fought not to shudder, to stay perfectly still and amenable, like he’d expected this, wanted it.

“I saw you with that girl,” said a low, entirely unfamiliar voice.

It took a Herculean effort not to turn his head or whip around. He didn’t want to scare the man off—he had to gain his trust and keep it, at least until he had a name.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Light murmured, brushing off the accusation. He kept his voice steady, placating. “I had to manufacture an excuse for my family to come meet you. They think I’m on a date with her, but instead I’m here with you.”

There was a silence. More breath on Light’s ear, uncomfortably damp. “You wanted to see me that badly?”

“Yes. What you did before—you didn’t have to. You could have just asked me. I would have said yes.”

“I’m sorry,” the voice whispered. “It’s just… Light-chan, you’re so beautiful. I had to. You get it, right? You have to know what you do to me.”

The too-familiar honorific immediately enraged him.

“I understand,” he said again, throat thick with utter disgust. The man was unhinged. “It’s not your fault. You have needs.”

“Light-chan…” The voice turned breathless, ecstatic. “I knew it. I knew you’d like me back.”

_I hate you_ , Light spat in his mind. _You’re dead fucking wrong._ Instead, he made himself sound just as breathless—curious, hesitant. “Can I see you?”

The voice quieted. Ryuk chuckled. A train rattled into the station and slowed to a stop before the platform. The doors slid open.

“Get on the train,” said the voice.

Light got on the train.

*

It wasn't like how it had been with Raye Penber. Light was not in control of this situation. He had never been more aware of how _not_ in control he was. 

People filtered in, crammed themselves together, and the doors closed. All the seats were already taken. Light gripped one of the poles for something to hang onto, something he could use to ground himself in reality. It quickly grew slippery under his palm.

He had taken the train for most of his student life, but he’d never braced himself like he did now, skin crawling with anticipation. Sure enough, there was a solid presence at his back, just like before, leaning into him. But now there were hands settling on his hips, pulling him back, and something pressed against his ass. The man’s lips brushed his ear, pushed against his skull. He inhaled.

“You smell so good,” he whispered.

Light went rigid. The ambient noise in these carriages wasn’t loud enough to risk a conversation. “Not here.”

“I know, I know. Just let me…”

His heart was racing. The bile rose in his throat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

A large, warm hand slid across his stomach, rumpling his shirt.

He looked down at the hand touching him. Big, strong, slightly tanned. A male hand, belonging to a man. A man whose cock was shoved up against his ass, whose broad, tall body kept him from shifting away. Panic crawled up his spine and settled on his tongue. He wanted to run.

“Not here,” he repeated, hissing it, but the admirer didn’t stop.

“Shh,” he said. “We have to be quiet.”

Light tried not to hyperventilate. He forced himself to think.

The hand didn’t look like it belonged to an older man. No watch. Suit jacket sleeve. The likelihood that its owner was another student or a younger professor was high, but Light couldn't be sure. Plenty of people visited To-Oh’s campus who didn’t belong there in an official capacity. It wasn’t difficult to get in and out of buildings if you were smart.

Light watched the hand press flat above his belt buckle and pull backward so they were more firmly aligned. The touch wasn’t even that invasive, but even so, he felt like peeling all his skin off just to get away. His grip on the pole tightened. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, or else they didn’t care.

_Rotten._ A world where nobody saw, or cared enough to see.

It didn’t progress much further than that, but Light could still feel the hot press of the admirer’s cock as it rocked furtively against him, the hot damp breaths that stirred his hair. His stomach flipped and tightened. Then the admirer’s hand slid down, and Light almost broke and ran. If this were any other situation, he would’ve called the man a pervert and shoved away. Even if he couldn’t get out of the train, he could remove himself from the touch, fight his way to another spot. It was all he wanted to do.

The admirer cupped him through his slacks and squeezed, and Light was horrified to find himself half-hard. 

_No,_ he thought, just as he heard a low chuckle. He couldn’t tell if it was Ryuk or the admirer; his head felt like it was full of cotton. He was about to release the pole and yank the admirer’s hand away when he felt lips at his nape: a wet kiss. There was soft fumbling behind him. Something—the admirer’s other hand?—brushed his ass, and then the touch withdrew. He realized faintly that he was trembling with the force of keeping himself still and silent.

The doors were opening.

Suddenly the warm body behind him was moving away, but not before he was given a gentle push. For a moment, Light couldn’t make himself move, and then somehow he released the pole and moved forward with the rest of the passengers, out the doors and onto the platform.

It took him a second to realize something was wrong; he felt unbalanced. He checked his jacket pocket—no phone. He reached for his wallet. It wasn’t there.

It had been replaced with a slip of paper. Light withdrew it, nearly blind with fury. An address, an apartment number. And written beneath it:

_Act like we're already together, okay? Call me “darling”._

Light didn’t allow himself to crumple the paper in his hand—the admirer could still be watching, waiting to catalogue his reaction—but he imagined it torn to shreds and consumed by fire; imagined the admirer’s fingers broken and scorched. First _Light-chan_ , now _“darling”?_

“Huh,” Ryuk said. “I guess he’s pretty smart. Dragging you around like this.”

He could turn around right now. He had an address. Even if the apartment number turned out to be a love hotel room number—which seemed far more likely, given all the admirer’s actions up until this point—with a little digging and some time, Light could find out who’d registered the room.

But he couldn’t be sure. He still didn’t have a face, and if he left now, he wouldn’t have his wallet or his phone, and there was no guarantee those pictures wouldn’t be released the minute he deviated from the admirer’s instructions. He would have suffered for nothing. Most of all, he couldn’t leave a piece of the Death Note in someone else’s hands, even if they had no idea what they had. The chance of his own name being written was very small, but even the smallest chance was too great a risk to take.

There was nothing for it.

*

When Light arrived at the address, his heart sank. It wasn't a home or an apartment, as he’d hoped, but a love hotel, as he’d expected.

Ryuk’s low-level chuckling followed him into the lobby and up the stairwell. He hadn’t said anything since the train, merely drifting along, a long shadow with too many teeth. Light hoped savagely he was enjoying his little show.

His feet walked him to the correct room, and he stood in front of the door with his hands curled into fists. It took him a moment to loosen up, relax, and accept what he was about to do—accept that it was necessary. Usually he could slip in and out of character with ease, but this took effort. He didn't want to do this. Loathing encircled his neck like a steel collar and squeezed. Soon, he told himself, it would be over and done with, and another worthless criminal would be dead.

He knocked. The door swung open, and Light saw his admirer for the first time.

He was a tall, fit man with short dark hair and a serious, handsome face. He didn’t look anything like Light had imagined: ugly, unwashed, the mien of a thousand criminals he’d sent to their deaths. There was an intensity to his expression that Light recognized somehow. He was older, but not too old. In his thirties, maybe.

He was familiar, too. Light _knew_ he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t recall when or where. It ate at him.

At least he wasn’t ugly. That made it easier to pretend, though the very idea of it being somehow _easy_ with a man made Light’s hackles go up for reasons he couldn’t immediately identify. He tore the thought away and destroyed it.

“I'm home,” Light said, and bent to remove his shoes.

“Welcome home,” said the admirer.

Light straightened back up, closed the distance between them, and kissed him.

It wasn’t unlike kissing a woman. The mechanics were the same, except for how unacceptable it was. A horrible little thrill zipped through him at the transgression of voluntarily kissing another man.

He kept it chaste and brief. When he drew back, the admirer’s expression had barely changed, but there was a note of fevered shock and exhilaration in his gaze. Light stayed close, intimate, capitalized on their proximity. He knew how to do this much: he was no stranger to manipulating people’s feelings, especially when they were about him. _For_ him.

First things first. He stroked a finger coyly down the man’s neck, mimicking behavior he’d experienced with previous girlfriends. “May I have my wallet back?”

“Why? You don’t need it.”

The sheer irrationality of the response caught him off-guard. “Please,” he said, softly cajoling. “For school.”

“Later,” said the admirer. “I want to show you something.” Light bristled internally, furious at being brushed off. A tiny seed of doubt began to grow in his chest. 

The admirer led him over to the desk across from the bed, where a folio had been laid open. Light looked down at the first page.

It was packed with photographs and polaroids. Of him.

Him playing tennis, mid-swing, shirt baring his stomach. Him walking outside. On the train. Outside of his house, through his window. Him conversing with other students, boys, girls. There were even a few shots of him walking on campus with L. He bit down on a hysterical laugh and kept it lodged firmly in his throat. L wasn’t going to like that he’d been photographed.

“Wow,” Ryuk said, sounding genuinely impressed. “I guess he’s really into you, huh? I didn’t even notice him following you around. He’s even better than that FBI guy.”

Light flipped through the whole thing, scanning for a name while he absorbed the magnitude of how thoroughly he’d been stalked, but no such luck. The most recent photographs, the ones at the very end, were a series of polaroids featuring him sprawled unconscious against a bathroom wall. In the first few, his face was clean; then suddenly a cock appeared pressed to his lips, the admirer’s fingers barely in frame. The last were a series of shots with semen clinging to his face, the same as the one that had been left in his lap.

“What do you think?” the admirer said, a possessive hand on Light’s waist. He was desperate for Light’s approval, desperate for his feelings to be validated.

“You have a good eye,” Light said. He pushed down the urge to be violently ill. “I’m flattered.”

He considered the very real possibility of simply murdering the admirer with his own bare hands, hitting him until his face caved in like an overripe melon, but everything inside him was screaming at him to leave instead, to get out and regroup. He needed to make an excuse and put distance between himself and this situation, but he needed the name even more. If he just got the name, he could go.

His hand shook as he went to close the folio, but he stilled it before the admirer could notice. If he’d brought it along specifically to show Light, there should be a bag, or a case—something he’d carried it in to keep it safe and protected. Light glanced around out of the corner of his eye and saw a leather messenger bag on the chair next to the window, half-hidden by a throw pillow.

Light turned in his grip and looped his arms around the admirer’s neck, his back to the folio, his tailbone against the desk edge. He could feel an erection pressing into his hip, warm and hard and disgusting, and had to actively force himself not to avoid it.

“Darling,” he started, and then stopped, like it’d just occurred to him: “I love calling you darling, but… I want to know who you really are. I want us to be together for real.”

The admirer’s expression was difficult to read. “We already are together.”

Light stroked the side of his face. “I don't even know your name. Is it because of Kira? I'd never tell, if that's what you're worried about.”

“That's what they all say.”

Light fought a sneer. So he’d done this before and just hadn’t been caught. Or perhaps he had—perhaps there were records buried somewhere, a complaint or a misdemeanor that got ignored or brushed off. If there were records, Light could find them. 

“Have they done this?” Light kissed him again, slow and soft, and, under the pretense of this intimacy, he ran his hands down and over all the places a typical man might keep a wallet—but he felt nothing. He drew back. “I'd never betray you. You know that, right?”

“I can't,” the admirer said, regretful but unmoving. “Not yet.”

_Fuck._ Just like that, he knew he wasn't going to be able to coax the name out tonight; he was going to have to steal it. The frustration of that complication made his teeth ache, his fingers twitch. Was the admirer carrying any form of ID at all? Obviously not on his person, but—the bag. His own wallet and phone must be in there too; everything must be in there. It had to be. He needed to get to the bag no matter what.

Even if he couldn’t grab the bag, he had other options: if there was a net café nearby, he could do some digging under his dad’s name. It’d take a few hours, but he was confident he could find _something_ with the information he had now. He could knock the admirer out, maybe with the bedside lamp, and be done with this whole thing before he woke up—and if everything went well, he’d never wake up. He could burn the folio and erase this man from existence.

He needed to provide a distraction, something that would allow him to get to the bag and get out, but nothing that went too far. He had to avoid the bed at all costs. He could barely stand being touched this much already. Kissing. It seemed like the best option he had. Then the excuse, then—run.

Light stepped around the admirer, hands on his wrists, keeping their bodies close. Now he was no longer pinned to the desk: he was free to move freely, and the bag was just a few feet away. He gave the admirer a coquettish smile; the man didn’t return it, but the obsessive hunger in his gaze flashed like the edge of a knife. 

Light kissed him again.

The admirer’s hands fell back to his waist. His cock pushed against Light’s hip, beginning a slow, languid roll, the same rhythm from the train. He moaned into Light’s mouth, a little thing, and Light had never wanted more to tear someone’s throat out and kiss them _harder_. He did neither, despising himself, despising his role in this, his chest bubbling with venom and violence.

Thankfully, the admirer seemed content just to kiss, at least for now. Once Light was sure enough time had passed, he made a believable show of catching sight of his watch, of making himself seem shocked and apologetic. He stepped away, toward the bag. “Darling—I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was—” 

“Time?” The admirer looked dazed.

“My family is expecting me back home by now.”

In a flash, the admirer’s expression turned thunderous. “Are you trying to leave me?”

Light immediately shifted into an ingratiating, nonthreatening posture. “No, of course not,” he said softly. “I’d stay if I had a choice. It’s just that I’m expected back home—” 

“Don’t lie to me!” the admirer snarled, and struck Light across the face. “You’re all the same!”

The blow was heavy enough to knock him sideways. His ears rang. He lifted a hand to his cheek and felt it throb. It was going to bruise.

A part of him rejoiced. Now he had physical evidence to back up a story—a chance mugging, a random attack. The rest of him was infuriated. He had to strangle his own rage before it showed on his face. He looked back at the man, as calm as he could manage, and said, “I didn’t lie, darling. What can I do to prove it to you?”

“Stay,” the admirer said, and before Light could run, he’d closed his hands around Light’s throat.

Fear struck through him. He should have accounted for violence. Immediately he scrabbled at the fingers around his neck. “Stop,” he croaked, but the strength in the admirer’s hands was inescapable. There was a trick to getting people to let their guard down—go limp, act like you’d passed out. But he couldn’t make himself submit, to let it happen. What if the admirer didn’t stop? There was no guarantee he wouldn’t just strangle Light to death right here.

_Shit._

Light drove his knee into the admirer’s groin.

He grunted in pain and dropped him. “You little _bitch!_ ”

The door was closer, but he couldn’t leave without the bag, the wallets, his phone. Light scrambled toward it. A heavy weight flattened him before he could close his hand around the strap. Light twisted beneath it, driving an elbow into whatever part of the admirer he could reach. Hands were grasping for his throat again. He darted a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew the pen, flicked off the cap, and drove it as deep as he could into the admirer’s shoulder.

The admirer reared back with a pained shout, just enough for Light to wriggle out from underneath him. He gripped the strap, wound it in his fist, got to his feet. He’d have to leave the folio where it was. He could come back for it, once the admirer was dead.

He bolted for the door, but then a bright sharp pain flared on the back of his head, and he dropped out of reality and into deep unconsciousness.

*

Light woke up face down on the bed, his wrists chained to the bedposts. He was naked.

Horror drenched him. He thrashed in the restraints, panicked. They held fast. A million thoughts roared to life in his mind, all falling over one another like rats in a barrel, but only one took vicious hold: _I’m going to be raped._

This couldn’t be happening. This _couldn’t_ be happening.

A weight settled on the backs of his thighs, pinning his hips to the bed. “There, there, it’s okay, you’re safe,” the admirer said, soothing Light’s twisting flanks like he was a spooked horse. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Light let his mask drop. “Get the _fuck_ off me!”

The admirer withdrew. Silence fell, except for Light’s harsh breathing.

“You keep lying,” he said, sounding actually hurt. “You made me believe you loved me, but you’re just like all the others.”

“Of course I fucking lied to you,” Light hissed, his heart in his throat. He should have aimed that pen into the man’s eye. He wondered if he’d bandaged the wound, or if he’d just yanked the pen out. Had it even slowed him down at all? “You’re disgusting.”

There was a shift on the mattress. “It’s okay,” the admirer whispered. “Even if you lied, it’s okay. Even if you hurt me. You’re mine now. You’ll learn to love me.”

“Kira’s going to kill you for this,” Light tried, hating the desperate wobble to his voice.

The admirer didn’t seem fazed, which was even more infuriating. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Love isn’t wrong. I just want to love you, Light-chan. Kira will understand. This is for your own good.”

Light’s eyes slid to the side to where Ryuk was watching, his eyes gleaming like two lit bulbs. “Help me!” he shouted, not caring if it seemed odd, but the admirer didn’t appear to notice that Light wasn’t looking at him.

“You got yourself into this one, Light,” Ryuk said. “You can get yourself out, right? Sorry.”

Sorry? _Sorry?_

“You fucking bastard!” he screamed, and thrashed hard enough to make the cuffs bite into the skin of his wrists. Blood ran down his forearms. “ _Don't fucking touch me!_ ”

The admirer knelt between his spread legs. Light felt his entire body go cold. Hands ran up the backs of his thighs to his ass. “Fuck,” said the admirer, breathless. He gripped both cheeks and used his thumbs to draw them apart, baring his hole for inspection, and Light wanted to die. He’d never felt so exposed, so humiliated.

“So pretty, Light-chan. I bet nobody else has touched you here. Am I right?”

Light couldn’t speak. 

The admirer pressed a finger to his hole, and Light made a harsh, snarling noise he had no control over.

“I’m going to put my cock right here,” he said, petting gently over the clenching muscle. “You’ll feel so good, Light-chan. I promise.”

Light thought immediately of diseases, incurable, eating away at his cells, destroying him from the inside out. The finger sunk in, just slightly, and fucked him shallowly. The terrible gentle rhythm of it made heat begin to thrum inside him, to gather at the base of his cock. He was getting hard. Light wanted to scream. He couldn’t be aroused by this. He _couldn’t._

He was glad he was face down, that his erection was pressed flat against the mattress, hidden from sight. He didn’t want the admirer to see what this was doing to him, how his body had betrayed him.

The finger withdrew, but Light couldn’t relax. Was that all the preparation he’d get? He swallowed against the lump of fear in his throat and strained against the cuffs, but got nowhere. The admirer’s weight shifted down. He felt damp breath on his ass, and then cool air blew across his asshole. He froze. No. He wouldn’t. It was filthy, he wouldn’t _dare._

“Don’t—”

Something hot and wet licked firmly over his hole.

Light’s mind went blank. He might’ve gasped, or made some other noise. Worse, the sensation shot through him like a bullet, flaying him open. His cock ached.

The admirer’s tongue pointed and pushed against his rim, thrusting in like a small, slippery cock. Light’s stomach roiled with unwanted, nauseous arousal. The horrible wrongness of the violation made him want to tear his own skin off, made him want to crack himself open just to slip away. He was being fucked with a human tongue. It was inside him, just like the finger. The concept was absurd. Repulsive. 

This was happening to him, to his body.

Eventually, the admirer withdrew. He pressed a loud, wet kiss to Light’s clenching hole; gave him one last loving lick. Before Light could reorient himself, he was pushing two fingers in and pistoning them lazily, and Light choked at the sudden stretch. Distantly, it occurred to him that the admirer was practiced at this. How many other men had he raped? How many other men had been tied to this bed before him?

Light turned his face into the mattress and bit the sheets in an attempt to contain his helpless rage. He knew what was coming next. He at least had enough presence of mind left to hiss out, “Condom,” but he knew it wouldn't matter, and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—beg.

“No. I want to feel you.”

Then there was a cock pressing against his hole, warm and blunt and terrifying. Light tried to relax, but the absolute fear and revulsion of being penetrated made all his muscles lock up. The admirer smoothed a hand up his spine, then down again. He gripped hard at his waist. Light could feel the cock slowly testing his hole, pushing at the rim, teasing it open. Even having been tongued open and slicked with spit, it still felt too dry. The promise of pain froze him.

“Pretty,” sighed the admirer. “So pretty.”

The cock slowly sunk in. Light couldn't breathe. It hurt. It was too much. Furious tears rolled down his cheeks and dampened the sheets, and he was glad he was afforded the chance to hide them. The admirer worked inside him in inexorable rocking thrusts, a little more each time, until he was all the way in. Light felt split open, filled up. Human bodies weren’t supposed to be used like this. This was never supposed to have happened to him.

The admirer grabbed his hips, forced them up so Light was kneeling shallowly, his head still pressed into the mattress; the change in angle made the thick cock inside him slide and rub against something that made a moan shock out of the back of his throat, and the immediate shame of it made him bite his lip hard enough to bleed. 

Then the admirer began to fuck him in earnest.

Somewhere outside of himself, Light heard short, pleading, gasping moans, and knew with absolute mortification that he was the one making them. Golden liquid heat throbbed all along his cock and between his legs. Each thrust was a burning lick of pleasure. The pounding rhythm was almost hypnotizing in its gross, base animality. He couldn’t ignore how good it felt. He was so aroused, his eyes stung.

He was going to come. The understanding hit him long before it actually happened, but it didn’t make it any easier: there was no way to prepare for the depth of awful pleasure that drowned him, the way the orgasm tossed him like a wreck against the cliffs. He felt warm wet semen soak against his stomach, the sheets. His entire body was suffused with frothing, blooming heat, and the admirer was still going, still fucking him.

“Shit, Light-chan,” he grunted brokenly. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful…” 

Even when the admirer came, jerking into Light like a rabid animal, he didn't stop. Not for a long time.

*

“Light,” someone said. A familiar voice. And then, “Oh, fuck. Light…”

Light blinked open crusted eyes.

It took him a moment to realize who was standing there, and when he did, a burning wave of shame overtook him. He shuddered and said nothing. Instead, he took stock of his condition: still restrained, torn wrists, throbbing face, aching body. He felt numb from the waist down. No—that wasn’t true. He could still feel the come leaking out of him, a disgusting crawling sensation. Someone had laid a towel over his backside.

Fingers started working to unlock the cuffs on his wrists. “We’re going to get you out of here,” Aizawa said.

Seconds passed. Possibly minutes. “How did you find me,” Light croaked, when he had himself under control.

Aizawa’s mouth was set firmly, his expression serious. “After your tennis match, Ryuuzaki suspected you weren’t telling the whole truth. He had someone monitoring you for the week. They called this in. But when you didn’t come back out again, we had no choice but to investigate. I’m sorry, Light.”

“Where is he?”

“Ryuuzaki?”

“No, _not Ryuuzaki._ ”

Aizawa paused. “The man who… he’s in our custody.”

Light didn’t allow himself to react. It was easier to keep his face blank, anyway. _I want him dead_ , he didn’t say. _I was supposed to kill him. Don’t you dare take that away from me, L._

“Tell me who he is.”

Aizawa looked deeply uncomfortable. “If you don’t already know… L told us not to tell you his name.”

Light almost screamed in anger, but the urge receded as quickly as it had come. All he needed was access to a computer and he could find the name. He had an address, he had a pattern of movement, he had CCTV footage. It would be easy.

It would be easy.

The next several hours passed in a blur. He was taken to the hospital, tested, checked over. They cleaned and bandaged his wrists, gave him antibiotics and a cold pack for the bruise, some ointment. The blood tests came back clean, but even that was only a dull, distant relief. Light felt like he was floating through the experience, detached from his own body. He understood that he was in shock, but he could do nothing to combat it.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of L that anything felt real again, and by then it was a struggle to pull his mask back into place, to exist as Yagami Light as L knew him.

“I will allow you to maintain the lie that you were kidnapped for your father, but I’d ask that you refrain from lying to me.” L popped a chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth. He looked unconcerned, which was a small mercy; Light couldn't stand to be pitied. “Tell me what happened. Begin on the day of the tennis game, please.”

He couldn’t let L see how badly it was affecting him. He couldn’t. He was a consummate actor; he could do this.

Light told him about the water bottle, the bathroom, the polaroid, the train. “He stole my wallet and my phone and told me to meet him where you found me. I did what he said.”

L’s dark eyes reflected no light, like matte ink. Expectant.

Light forced himself to speak. Forced himself to breathe. “He knocked me out and tied me to the bed.”

“And then?”

_Fuck you._ He stopped. _No._ His throat was glued shut. _Don’t make me say it._ “You know what happened then.”

“Yes. You were raped.”

The words clanged around Light’s head like a ringing bell. He wondered if he might vomit.

L looked evenly at him. “I wonder why Light-kun decided to go along with his scheme instead of reporting it to me?”

_Like I’d ever go to you for help, you freak._ “I thought I could handle it myself.”

“I see,” L said. “Were you planning on killing him, Light-kun?”

It took everything he had to deny it. “Of course not!” Light hissed, as though he were offended by the mere suggestion. “I thought if I played along, I could get enough evidence to report him to the police.”

“Noble of you,” L said dryly. “And yet uncharacteristically stupid. Not to mention arrogant.”

_I didn’t expect…_ The words died in his throat. He wouldn’t admit to underestimating his admirer, a rapist, a _criminal._ He was supposed to think of everything, to prepare for every outcome. He thought he had. He’d relied too heavily on the Note, so sure of the ease with which he’d be able to obtain and write a name.

He’d almost had it.

He could tell that L was disappointed. There was nothing in his posture or his expression to suggest it, but his tone took on a lighter, more casual note, like it didn’t matter much to him either way. Like Light’s torture was _unimportant,_ or made him somehow lesser. 

Then L said, “Incidentally, he recorded the encounter,” and Light’s stomach dropped to his feet.

Everything in him was suddenly ablaze with helpless fury. Pure loathing shot up his spine to his skull in a hot, acidic rush. He felt dizzy.

L was still talking. “They found the hidden camera after searching the room. I apologize for keeping it from you, but I needed to know you were telling me the whole truth. I’m glad Light-kun’s story and the reality of things match up.”

“You watched it,” Light said softly, dully. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” L said, as casually as if he were remarking upon the weather.

Everything was suddenly very quiet inside his head.

L hadn’t just made him say it—he’d _watched_ Light’s humiliation. He’d seen everything. Light’s lowest point, his ultimate shame. His pain and fear and helpless arousal.

There were no words in the Japanese language that could explain the hatred he felt toward L in that moment. “Who did this to me?” he asked. “You know who it is. You have to know.”

“That’s correct. I do know. However, his name and other personal details have been withheld from the public, and I have gone to the trouble of expunging any identifying records. Only the team, barring your father, know the true severity of his crimes.” L gave him a slow blink, like some kind of aquatic creature. “I’ve been quite thorough.”

Everything about this was so fundamentally unacceptable that Light’s mind refused to acknowledge it as reality. He simply stared at L for a frozen moment, chest heaving with a cocktail of ugly emotions he couldn’t even begin to identify.

“You can't do this,” he said, barely able to articulate the words. “I have a right to know.”

“I will be interested to see whether your rapist dies regardless of the precautions I’ve taken,” L continued. “If he does, you are Kira, and I will be forced to arrest you. So I hope you understand why I’m keeping the details from you, Light-kun.”

He realized, vaguely, that he was hyperventilating. Objectively, he could tell he was about to have some kind of breakdown. His usual control had completely frayed apart. The same awful, crushing dread he’d felt after using the notebook for the first time crawled up his spine and into his throat. Words were no longer available to him. He didn’t care if it made L suspect him that much more; he didn’t care about his stupid fucking percentages. He didn’t care.

He leapt forward.

He’d punched L once in the face before L got a leg up beneath him and kicked him in the stomach. Light fell back and landed on his ass, and the impact felt like being impaled. He choked out a breath and curled onto his side, woozy with nausea.

“Watari,” L said, somewhere above him. His cheek was red from the force of Light’s punch. It would bruise. “Please take Light-kun home.” 

Light had never hated a single person more. He had to focus on breathing, because his body was refusing to cooperate. It kept shuddering and trembling, and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

He heard a door open and then close. Strong, weathered hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, and L’s eyes followed him up, unblinking. 

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said blandly. “I hope Light-kun will be able to get some rest. I expect him back here tomorrow evening, just like always.”

“This way,” Watari said, and guided Light out as he shook apart.


End file.
